Some Kind of Mysterious
by Autumn Rayne
Summary: Chloe slowly comes to terms with her new-found knowledge. Post Season 3. Written as part of the "They're Back; Aren't They?" Fic Exchange.


**a/n:** Written as part of the "They're Back; Aren't They?" Fic Exchange for Upquark! Inspired by Shot At the Night by The Killers. Hope y'all enjoy!

 **Some Kind of Mysterious**

It's too much too soon, happening in a matter of seemingly quick, blurry days. A wedding called off, a friend murdered, an ex-lover the cause of both. She doesn't have time to process the darkness and as swiftly as it surrounds her, it overtakes her.

It's a moment she wishes she could call a surprise. Pierce fires the shot and she passes out, temporarily compromised by the impact of the bullet against her vest. The darkness takes full control of her then, its creeping tentacles weaving through her thoughts, manifesting in a nightmare.

Lucifer? The devil?

Nonsense.

A nightmare, nothing more. Simply a crazy, mixed-up bundle of unprocessed emotions, tied with a nice fat ribbon of stress.

A nightmare, nothing more.

It becomes her mantra, a whispered string of endlessly repeated words; a new, mumbled addition to her morning routine.

A nightmare, nothing more.

Every morning following, she rolls out of the warmth of the blankets.

A nightmare, nothing more.

Every morning following, she wanders sleepily across the bedroom floor and into the bathroom.

A nightmare, nothing more.

Every morning following, she stares at her reflection in the mirror.

A nightmare, nothing more.

Every morning following, her fingers trace the angry, purple bruise left by the bullet.

A nightmare, nothing more.

Every morning following, the words slowly die on her lips as reality sets in.

Lucifer.

The devil.

As the days pass, the bruise fades. The disappearance of the only physical reminder of the day does no favors for the emotional ones. Having one less thing to distract her, the emotional toll grows. The indescribable fear sprouts, flourishing in its expanded territory. She doesn't know what to say; she doesn't know what to do. And the forced time off work simply gives her too much time to think.

Five days into the FBI's investigation into Pierce's death, she receives a letter from Lucifer, delivered to her home by a stealthy, and no doubt underground, currier. _I thought you should know what I told the agents,_ it reads. She doesn't question why. She houses no desire to tell the higher-ups that Pierce was Cain from the Bible, nor that the actual devil had killed him, and she is certain Lucifer doesn't want that either. _I did not lie,_ he assures her. His details are rather generic; blanket statements that tell the truth without giving too much away. Blanket statements that allow her to do the same. Three days later, the FBI clears Lucifer of any wrongdoing. Two more, they clear her.

Her first day of reinstatement is a thick pool of whispered accusations and condemning glances. She busies herself with paperwork in an attempt to ignore her co-workers but every now and again, her thoughts wander and her ears catch a portion of hushed conversation. A nightmare, nothing more, she reminds herself. As the words settle around her, she looks up from her papers, and before her desk, as though her thoughts had summoned him – speak of the devil and he shall appear – Lucifer stands. Quiet, reserved, almost…uncomfortable. _I thought it important to maintain appearances,_ he explains. _At least for a little while._ She agrees, though reluctantly, with a simple and slow nod of her head. She doesn't want to answer questions from her fellow detectives; she doesn't want to try to explain the circumstances of Pierce's death, of Charlotte's death. Lucifer's presence, the normalcy of partners side by side, will quell most of those inquiries. Having Lucifer around, however, does not help _her_. She doesn't want reminders of things she doesn't understand; things she doesn't _want_ to understand.

Over the following two months, Lucifer gives her the space she needs. He spends most of his on-the-clock time on solo-missions at her direction. He obeys every order, is diligent in his work. His research, his interviews, by the book. _I_ 's dotted; _T_ 's crossed. No hotheaded, shortsighted Luciferness, simply a perfect partner, speaking only when spoken to, showing only when called upon. Odd, she thinks, that she never outwardly asks for the separation, yet Lucifer simply seems to sense what she wants, seems to know when their time together reaches her limits. Not having him around constantly is weird; it's different; just different enough that maybe, just _maybe_ she is—

No. _No_. She does not, does _not_ miss Lucifer.

One morning, after a particularly restless night, she pads her way from her bed to the bathroom and discards her clothing to soak up the solace of a warm shower. As the water runs along her skin, she finds she cannot absorb the relief. She's full of an overwhelming feeling that something is not quite right. She turns off the water and reaches for a towel as she steps out of the shower. She wraps it around her body and presses her palm to the fogged mirror. Her hand wipes away the condensation as her eyes focus on the reflection of the skin beneath her collarbone. How long has it been since she's studied the once-bruised area? She frowns and closes her eyes. A nightmare, nothing more, she thinks. How long has it been since she's said that? Her eyes open and she stares at herself. She can't remember the last time she thought or muttered those words. She feels closer to an answer, closer to discovering what's wrong. It's just beyond her reach until she thinks maybe —

 _No_. She does _not_ miss Lucifer.

The lights are dim, the music silent when she enters Lux. It's not quite time to open the doors to the public. She finds Lucifer sitting at the bar and her eyes remain focused on his back as she descends the stairs. She stops at his side, not too close but not too far away, and places a jar of pickle juice on the bar top. If he is surprised to see her, he does not say or act as such. In fact, he doesn't say anything at all. He simply remains silent as she rounds the bar and searches for a bottle of whiskey. _It isn't really your birthday, is it?_ she asks as she places four shot glasses before him. _No_ , he answers quietly. She fills two glasses with whiskey, two with pickle juice and then slides one of each in his direction. _Do you even have a birthday?_ she continues. _No,_ he repeats. She nods as her fingers close around her glass of whiskey. She holds it in the air between them, expectant, and forces herself to meet his eyes. His eyebrow lifts with the most subtle of movements before he takes his glass and follows her lead. The whiskey goes down much easier than the pickle juice and she absently thinks she could use three or four more shots of the alcohol. _Okay,_ she says as she nods gently. _Happy birthday._ She leaves the bar without another word.

She does _not_ miss Lucifer.

She's short with Lucifer, distances herself from him more than is probably necessary. Or maybe not enough. She's not sure. He's the devil. The. Devil. Although the fear born of that fact does not surface as often as it used to, it still surfaces. Sometimes she goes days without giving it a thought. Sometimes it's all that's on her mind, and it's damn strong.

 _Proof_ that she does _not_ miss Lucifer.

It's been months since she's been in Lucifer's penthouse. Almost a year. Despite her adamant decision to see Lucifer only in a work-related atmosphere, she finds herself quickly accepting his invitation to dinner. As she sits across the table from him, she thinks about how this dinner is different from the dinners they have shared in the past. It isn't like the dinner they shared after the trial of her father's murderer; it isn't like the dinner they shared as Lucifer tried to prove he was better than Pierce. It isn't like the dinners they shared after long days, after closing cases. It's awkward; it's quiet. It's almost as though they don't really know each other.

She doesn't, she quietly accepts. She doesn't _truly_ know Lucifer. He knows her well; she doesn't know him at all. Which of those statements scare her the most? She doesn't know that either.

What she _does_ know is that she does _not_ miss Lucifer.

A week passes and she finds herself at the penthouse again. This time, dinner is much more informal, each sitting on the sofa, sharing a hearty basket of cheese curds. She has questions, simple questions. She learns quickly that nothing regarding Lucifer is simple and it isn't long before her head is spinning trying to process the answers he gives. She calls the evening early and takes her leave. She has a right to know, she decides, a right to know the partner upon whom she depends. A right to have answers to her questions.

But that does not mean she misses Lucifer.

Dine, discuss, ditch. This becomes the routine. Every few days, she goes to the penthouse, uninvited though no less welcome. They share a meal, she asks her questions and when Lucifer's story becomes overwhelming, she leaves. She's trying, she really is, and she wonders if he understands. He must, she surmises. Would he continue to work with her, to welcome her into his home, continue to have dinner, to answer her questions if he didn't understand?

She falls asleep on his sofa one night, drained from work, drained from the tales he spins. She's teetering just on the edge of consciousness, confused as to why she feels as though she is floating. It takes her sleepy mind a few moments to realize Lucifer is carrying her. He's placing her in his bed; he's wrapping the blankets, _tenderly_ wrapping the blankets around her body. Despite months of desperately trying to convince herself that she does not miss Lucifer, in that moment, she comes to a startling yet predictable conclusion.

She misses Lucifer.

 _I thought it important to maintain appearances._ She nearly laughs at the recollection of his words. _At least for a little while_ has turned into a year and a half. A year and a half of retaining their appearance of partners. She wonders how they arrived at the conclusion of needing to do anything differently. Sure, she thought about dropping him as a partner, and he clearly assumed she thought as much, yet neither had said the words. Neither had discussed it. Neither had put the option on the table. She turns her head slightly and looks up at Lucifer. It's dark and she can barely make out his features under the red light of the exit sign a few doors from their location. They're smooshed into a small niche in the basement of an office building, trying to hide from the trio of criminals set on killing them. Lucifer's arms are around her, his body pressing her into the niche as he leaves himself vulnerable to anyone that wonders by. He's not immortal around her, she thinks.

He's not immortal.

Lucifer's arms tighten around her as though he can sense the sudden panic that envelops her. The panic over his safety. When his chin drops, when he searches the red-tinted darkness for her eyes, she sees a comforting smile on his face. Thanks to the many nights he has regaled her with stories of his past, she feels she knows him a bit better now. Nevertheless, he is still a mystery to her. Some kind of mysterious man. Some kind of mysterious _being._ Some kind of mysterious devil. Some kind of mysterious _angel_. Just some kind of mysterious.

It's the largest jar of pickle juice she's ever seen and once she's past laughing, nearly hysterically, at its size, the bartender takes the cue from Lucifer and begins pouring shots of whiskey, ladling shots of pickle juice for Lux's patrons. It makes some sense to her, the burning of his wings. She understands the moment to be when Lucifer fully decided who he is. Changes have occurred in him since then, but those changes would not have come forward had he not burned his wings, he had not, even if it was unknowingly, given himself the opportunity to discover himself. Though he has no official birthday, he decides the anniversary of the day he torched his wings is as good a day as any. Everyone waits, shot in hand, for Lucifer's toast. _The birth of a new me,_ he declares. Whiskey down, pickle juice down, laughter and cheering follow. He turns to her, talks her into one more shot of each liquid before taking her hand and pulling her to the dancefloor.

He is infectious. His smile, his laughter, his manner. She can't help but smile and laugh in return as he bops to the beat of the music. _Dork_ , she throws at him. He wraps his arms tightly around her waist and spins her in a quick circle, punishment for her playful insult. They do not separate as their revolution comes to a stop but Lucifer's hold softens. A guilty realization washes over her. Devil or Angel? It doesn't matter. Lucifer is no different post-reveal than he was before she saw his devil face. Explaining eons of an immortal life during a mortal life span is impossible, she knows. There are details she will never hear, things she will never understand. To a point, he will always be a mystery. And that's okay. She doesn't want _some_ kind of mysterious; she wants _his_ kind of mysterious.


End file.
